


Frantic

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Some angst, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 15:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11233503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: How does it feel, when you think you've lost someone that matters the most to you?





	Frantic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scriptserpent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scriptserpent/gifts).



> Because your tumblr tags for my tumblr entry had encouraged me to finish this story :)
> 
>  
> 
> Note : Some warning for graphic description of the aftermath of violence (but nothing too major).

“Your friend, the American, he’s caught in the blast. A few civilians are injured, some badly, but we’ve yet to ascertain your friend’s condition.”

Illya, who’s injured himself after escaping from THRUSH, feels cold ice settle in his gut. They’ve managed to rescue him but Napoleon had stayed back with the rest of UNCLE’s team to clear out their enemy’s hideout. And Illya should have known better, he should have realised it the moment they had escaped.

Everything had been too easy.

It was all a setup and they’d fallen for THRUSH’s trap.

Letting everything sink in, he tries not to seem too perturbed by the medic’s news at first, tries to stay calm though Gaby who’s been tending to his injured arm knows better. She could feel the slight tremor in his hands, quickly stills it firmly, her slim fingers trying their best to offer some comfort. They eye each other and the worry in his eyes are obvious. Hoping and praying all her might that Napoleon is safe, Gaby realises the only thing she could do at the moment is to assure Illya that they’ll see Napoleon again and their worry would be laughed off later. She kneels in front of Illya and forces his attention on her.

“Listen, I’m sure Solo’s fine, Illya. And Waverly’s there too. He’ll sort it out, he’ll have his best men find Solo.”

Her soothing voice does nothing to calm Illya’s nerves. In fact, Illya feels panic rising up in him the moment they are left alone in their makeshift medical tent. The shooting pain running up and down his arm earlier is now forgotten. All he could think of is Napoleon lying on the ground, somewhere alone, caught under a rubble; bleeding, hurt, probably …. probably dying…probably thinking no one’s coming for him. He can’t let that happen to Cowboy. No, not Napoleon. He has to do something.

“Illya!”

Gaby’s voice pulls him back from his treacherous mind, from the horrible thoughts. His eyes widen, and then he doubles over before letting out a muffled groan.

“We are not there for him. He’s hurt…he needs our help,” he croaks. With pleading eyes, he grabs both of Gaby’s arm, starts shaking her, his grip almost hurting. “We need to help search for him!”

“You are in no condition, Illya. You’re hurt. Let them do their job,” Gaby tries placating the Russian but he’s adamant.

“Solo’s bugs. We can use the trackers to look for him.”

Illya is panicking but Gaby stands firm. She knows she can’t show Illya she’s feeling nauseous as well, the idea of losing Napoleon too horrible to bear. She has to be strong for him, for them, or it’d be worse. But in her distracted state, Illya’s already on his feet, pushing his way out from the tent and Gaby’s left with no choice but to chase after him.

Ignoring her shouts, Illya runs and runs. He runs as fast as his feet could take him. And when he reaches the brow of a small hill overlooking the little serene village where THRUSH had used it as a camouflage for their activities, he stops dead in his tracks. His heart plunges at the scene before him. And for what seemed like an eternity, he just stands there rooted.

“Illya?”

Gaby’s voice brings him out of his reverie. She reaches out a hand to grab his arm but then Illya’s already staggering down the hill, and Gaby sees it. 

The chaos. The smoke. People everywhere. 

Soon her feet is already taking her down towards the carnage as well.

“Illya!”

She catches up to her partner, eyes wide with horror. The innocent villagers are everywhere, some bloodied, some without a scratch. A few dead bodies are sprawled in a tangled heap. And she’s praying with all her might Napoleon’s one of the lucky ones.

“I cannot see him!” Illya cries, frantic. “I can’t.”

His hands are on his shaky knees, and he’s shaking his head, mumbling words to himself. Gulping huge breaths, he then turns to Gaby, and Gaby instantly knows that look Illya is giving her.

“Illya. He’s, he’s not…”

“No, we don’t know…don’t say it. Don’t.”

She nods, knows nothing is lost, not just yet, but Gaby hasn’t a clue of what to say to Illya at the moment. Earlier, she had been the more optimistic of the two, she had been the one convinced Napoleon is all right, but now, she’s just numbed. Seeing one of the rescuers helping an injured boy who is covered in blood sends dread running up and down her spine. That could easily be Napoleon, but it could also be worse, a lot worse. And she is too caught up in her own emotions to realise Illya has already left her side to help with the search and rescue.

Getting to her senses and knowing the rescue mission would need all the help and support they could get, Gaby rushes in as well. The local emergency responses have also arrived, helping UNCLE medics tend to the injured, and while talking to Waverly, Gaby learns the explosion had been caused by two separate bombs planted at one of the houses used by THRUSH as their base.

“It’s a miracle not everything is lost in the blast. They wanted to wipe out all the evidence but we managed to secure some.”

“Sir, Solo is still missing,” Gaby reminds him of what’s more important and he nods ruefully.

She hates how helpless she had sounded and he assures her that they will continue searching for him. 

“Where’s Kuryakin?” he asks.

Gaby had seen Illya rummaging through the rubble earlier, and when next she sees him, she could hear her own heart break.

“Illya, _god_ , you’re bleeding again.”

Gaby rushes up to him, who has sunk on a piece of large concrete, head in hands. Kneeling in front of him, she carefully cradles his injured arm, notices part of the stitches on his wound have come undone.

Gaby is talking, voice soft and reassuring as she tends to his injury, but Illya hears nothing but cries, frantic voices calling names of loved ones, desperate to find them in the chaos. And he sees nothing but only his partner’s face flashing in front of his eyes. He sees Napoleon in Rome, in Istanbul. Illya sees Napoleon tending to his almost fatal wound in Tokyo, sees him cooking for them in their safe house in Prague. He sees Napoleon laughing, hands in his hair, as he kisses him. Illya sees everything in his head. But he can’t see Napoleon anywhere in plain sight. He knows he should continue on, he should keep searching for him, but he had upheaved everything he could through the wreckage; lifted concrete and wood, even turned bodies. And each time his heart would stop, the terror of seeing Napoleon’s face on the lifeless ones.

“Illya. Look at me.”

He finally glances at Gaby, her face pale. Stricken. Just as his. She’s covered in sweat, dust and soot. She’d done all she could as well, but still, Illya doesn’t speak. He simply can’t. And neither does Gaby. They sit there in silence, eyes on each other, breathing dust and heat, but he knows their minds are set on their still missing friend.

Waverly’s search and rescue team are still going through the rubble, and an indeterminate amount of time later, after a long tension-filled silence, Gaby’s hand moves to cup Illya’s face with gentle hands. Her eyes are searching. Telling him something. And Illya pulls back, eyes wide. Defiant.

“Don’t say it,” he says.

“Illya.”

 _“No!”_ he says hoarsely, and she looks away and nods.

“Waverly, he’ll make sure the team won’t give up until we’ve got everyone out,” she says. “We’ll stay here, Illya. Until we find him.”

Illya doesn’t answer, merely looks at Gaby with pained eyes at first, and then, “I’ve tried the trackers. But there’s nothing. Maybe he found my bugs on him. Took them off. Maybe that is why I found nothing.”

Gaby’s hands on Illya’s arms tightens. But Illya doesn’t get to say anything else because she’s already on her feet, walks away towards where the search party is still going on, finds Waverly who’s talking urgently to someone on the team. From that distance, Illya can’t possibly tell what they are saying, but from the look on their faces, he knows it has something to do with Napoleon. She’s probably convincing Waverly that they can’t stop the search unless they find him, unless they find a body…

Illya tears his gaze away from them and through the ringing in his ears, he realises his hands are trembling. And it is getting worse by the second. Clenching them to fists, Illya digs his fingernails into his palms, hard enough to break the skin, hard enough to bleed. He’s shaking all over, his chest heaving, breaths coming up in gasps, the sound too harsh and loud in his ears.

_Napoleon, please, be alive. Please._

_Cowboy, you cannot leave us, you cannot leave me._

With eyes closed tight, he tells himself this, repeats the words in his head. Over and over. He loses track of time as he sits there, tries in vain to shut out everything he’s feeling. There’s wetness in his eyes, on his cheeks, an ugly noise in his throat. The gut wrenching pain he’s feeling is threatening to take over him entirely when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He immediately looks up and his stomach lurches at the sight in front of him.

“Illya? Illya, are you hurt?”

Illya is shaking like a leaf. He can’t believe his eyes. His breath hitches in his throat, not able to believe who he is looking at.

“Napoleon?” he croaks, his voice too raw it almost hurts saying Napoleon’s name.

“I looked all over for you at our base camp. And when I couldn’t find you or Gaby, I feared the worse.”

Still shell-shocked, Illya sits there unmoving, just stares at the concerned blue eyes on him. And he still could not grasp what’s happening. He still cannot believe what he’s seeing, what he is hearing.

Napoleon is there, large as life, hands on Illya’s face, fingers in his hair. He feels real. His touches seem real. Illya wonders if he is dreaming.

“I know I should have waited with these people, Illya. But when the explosion hit, there was chaos everywhere and I had to come to you. And when I couldn’t find you at our camp, and no one seems to know where you were, I panicked.”

Napoleon had searched for him at their camp and Illya had come running to the village for Napoleon. It made sense now. That’s why he couldn’t find him anywhere because Napoleon wasn’t even there when he was lifting up twisted metals, turning over dead bodies, searching desperately for the American. 

In the background behind them the dust cloud has settled but the acrid smell still lingers in the air, reminding Illya of what had happened. Of what _could_ have happened to Napoleon.

That sheer reminder is hellish, twists something deep inside of Illya, and a rough noise escapes him as he bends forward, clutching hard at Napoleon’s arms.

“Illya?” Napoleon is alarmed. “Are you all right? Talk to me, _please_? I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone after we got you out, and I should never have let them took you. What have those bastards done to you?”

Napoleon is talking, frantic. His mouth is moving. _‘He must be real’_ , Illya thinks in his tranced state. He has to be.

“You are real? You are safe?” Illya soon mutters, voice barely a whisper. For the first time since the terrible events began, he lets himself believe, allows himself to hope, that _this, now,_ is not just his mind playing tricks on him. 

“Are you…?”

Napoleon nods. “I’m here. I’m real, Illya.”

But Illya’s doubt continues.

“I’m real,” Napoleon repeats.

Timidly, Illya reaches out a hand, places it tentatively on Napoleon’s shoulder. The man is dirty, covered in dust. Illya brushes the dirt off of him. Then, he slowly brings up one hand up to his sweat-streaked face, touches his cheek, notices the shallow cuts and abrasions on his skin, above his lips, on his forehead. Blood is trickling down his temple. Illya thumbs it away. He takes both of Napoleon’s hands next, sees they are caked in dirt, dried crimson on the knuckles, on his palms. He checks for broken bones. Relieved to find everything intact. Other than those obvious injuries, Napoleon looks well enough. He is safe. He is there in front of Illya, and he is safe. Unhurt. Napoleon is alive. And despite looking completely dishevelled, he still looks goddamned beautiful. 

The recognition that he has not lost him reels Illya’s mind back to his body. “Napoleon,” he breathes, feels it necessary to say his name. 

“Oh my God, Solo?!”

Gaby’s sharp voice pulls them out of their moment.

“Gaby?” He comes to stand beside her but before Napoleon could fathom what’s happening, Gaby curses something in German and quickly pulls him into a tight hug. Napoleon’s eyes flick back and forth between her and Illya who is still rooted on that piece of huge concrete, confusion reigning his face.

“Gaby?” Napoleon says softly, his voice questioning. His arms have come up around her body, holds her tight even if he is unsure what has happened to warrant Gaby acting that way. And his frown deepens when she pulls away abruptly.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened? It’s not Waverly, is it?”

 _“What’s wrong? What’s happened??”_ Gaby shrieks as he punches him hard on the shoulder. “And _no_ , it is not Waverly, you idiot! The explosion, Solo! We searched everywhere for you! Everywhere! And when we couldn’t find you, we thought you were…Waverly had even…”

She stops, unable to finish what she’s saying and shakes her head, and then it dawns on Napoleon why Illya had acted strangely when he’d found him. Why Gaby is so incensed. His partners had thought the worse had happened. They thought he had…

With an awkward grin, he tries to apologise to his partners. “I’m sorry,” he says, the only thing he could offer, really. But Gaby is still angry. Or so it seems.

“I’ll update Waverly that we’ve found you. Hell, this is too much for me,” Gaby laments, rubbing her temples furiously.

“I should have radioed, tell you I was safe but, everything had happened so fast! I didn’t think to do it. I’m sorry again.”

Gaby only grunts loudly at him. “Well, you definitely should be!”

She hits him again, harder this time, and she does not care if he is hurt or injured, because she really ought to strangle him for the terrible thing he had done, her actions leaving Napoleon wide-eyed, surprised, and utterly speechless. For once, he’s not able to give a witty comeback, only watches Gaby walk away before turning his attention on Illya once more.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he starts.

But Illya still does not say a word.

“I’m supposing you are mad at me as well?”

Illya doesn’t really know what he feels at the moment. Losing the American wasn’t supposed to hurt as much as Illya had felt when he thought Napoleon had perished. But the feeling was way worse than anything he had ever experienced, it’s something Illya can never explain with words. Not knowing what to say, Illya looks away, tears his gaze from his bewildered partner. He sees the search and rescue team still going through the rubble. Ambulances have come up to take away the injured to the hospital. Waverly is directing whatever he deems necessary to his agents. And Gaby, despite looking righteously angry not a few moments ago is shaking her head at him but with a smile now on her face. She is relieved. And Illya feels it too.

_Sheer utter relief._

“Illya.”

He realises Napoleon is in front of him once again. His eyes are soft, apologetic. His hands have wound up around his neck, and Illya moves, mirrors Napoleon’s movement. His thumbs caress his cheeks, while his fingers feel his pulse rabbits underneath his skin.

Napoleon’s alive and whole.

“I would have done the same,” Illya chokes. “I would have looked for you first.”

Napoleon shakes his head. And then the corners of his lips curve into a smile. “I had you worried.”

Illya looks at him for a second. His lips twitch. “That is understatement. It is much worse.”

“I’m sorry. So, so sorry, Illya. I could keep saying that if it makes you feel better.”

Illya curses and before he himself knows it, he is already pulling Napoleon in, wraps his arms tightly around his shoulders, burying his face at the crook of the American’s neck. Napoleon reacts by circling his arms around Illya as well, his nose nuzzling his temple. He kisses him there, lets his lips linger while murmuring words of endearments. For a moment, they stay like that in silence, holding each other, ignoring everything that’s happening around them.

And Illya hears nothing but their heartbeats. He feels nothing but the solid form of Napoleon in his hold.

“I can’t believe how close I came to losing you. _So close_.”

Later that night, in the warmth of their safe-house, Illya admits this in Napoleon’s ear, tells him how wrecked he’d been when he thought he had lost him. Nuzzling his jaw, sucking gently at the hinge, and then his neck, lips kissing, teeth biting and hands caressing all over, Illya makes love to him until Napoleon’s vocabulary is reduced to mere moans and incoherent pleadings. And Illya gives him everything he begs for, a simple reiteration of what he’s prepared to do to ensure he never ever loses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here on Tumblr](http://el3anorrigby.tumblr.com/post/161927159552/el3anorrigby-el3anorrigby-your-friend-the)
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story! :)


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